Bring on the Wonder
by sweethoneyeyelashes
Summary: The team is still reeling after Jess Angell's death. And no one is taking it harder than Flack. What will it take to heal him? Maybe another soul just as broken as his.


I'm not a fan of New York. Never have been. I come from the country, grass and field for miles, deer nibbling in the yard and all that jazz. The big lights and skyscrapers don't impress me. But it's the farthest and most polar opposite I can feasibly get from my home town.

And I have become the farthest and most polar opposite woman I can feasibly get from the one that existed just a few months ago. I am a newborn in this city of light and sound, nurtured in a womb of hate and pain before being brought to life again. A hardened shell of the person I used to be. I am more hollow than I've ever felt. And nothing can fill the void.

Except outright stupidity. I wouldn't say I've become an adrenalin junkie in these last few months, but sometimes its hard to convince myself otherwise. New York isn't an entirely dangerous place. But I tend to find the filthiest situations to put myself in. And now that I'm not a cop anymore, no gun or badge to protect myself with, my antics are even more moronic.

Tonight, I'm riding on a dirty subway to my apartment. It's probably close to eleven forty at night and there's only three people riding in the car with me. An older Chinese woman, a young girl whose red eyes, scrawny build and finger twitches tell me she's an addict, and a drunk sitting across from me. I'm clearly out of my league here. But it feels good. The presence of danger, the closer I am to possible death, the more the void in me fills up. God knows why. I should probably seek some therapy for this little tick I've picked up. But for now, it does the trick. I'll go home tonight feeling satisfied. Maybe sleep without a nightmare.

But for now, my attention is focused on the drunk guy. He's actually pretty attractive. I estimate he's around my age though the alcohol that makes circles under his eyes and wets his lips ages him. His eyes are stark blue, and his jaw is square and masked with dark stubble. He takes another swig from his obvious paper bagged bottle and looks around the car happily. His eyes pass over me finally and I give him a small smile. A sympathetic one. Which seems to disgruntle him a bit but he looks away just as quickly.

I feel a bit out of place here. I'm dressed too nicely for this crowd. My pants are pinstriped and tight, heels black and looking lacquered in the light, my dark blouse unbuttoned just the smallest bit for a look at my olive toned chest and my hair quaffed and neat around my shoulders. But of course, I know deep down I am just as destroyed as the crowd I now surround myself with. My soul is as busted as they come. I may as well be a druggie or a drunk, or a confused old woman with no idea how she came to this city or how her life had fallen away from her.

At least I'm sure how mine fell away from me.

Suddenly, the door in the front of the car swishes open. A young man with dark skin and a mean grimace enters, another follows in after. They look like trouble. My instincts flare up and I look to the only other lucid person in the car with me, the old woman, for some sense of guidance. She senses the danger just as I have and I look over just in time to see her clutch her purse closer to her chest.

The two young men who have just come in lean against the poles in the center of the car. They're backs are somewhat to me but they are turned enough where I can see them passing looks between each other. They have circled the drunk man like vultures pinpointing road kill. He's an easy target they assume. They're probably right. And as if on cue the drunk hiccups happily, looking up at the two men.

I hear the swish of the doors again as the old lady guides herself out. And even the addict has enough sense to follow suit and get the hell out. Now, it's just me left with the two men and the poor drunk. He's seemed to figure out that he's in danger but looks confidently aloof. Which only provokes his soon to be attackers. They're just kids, but they've been killing and mugging for a long time. I can tell.

So, why can't I leave? Why don't I just save myself and walk away?

Hell, because even though I turned in my badge months ago, I'm still a cop. The duty never leaves you. And this guy is in no condition to fight these two off. I'm not much of a match for both of them -built like a runner more than a fighter- but maybe I can at least stall them.

The car is empty now and without concern for a sole witness, the first young man makes his move. He throws a fist hard in the drunk's face. Ungracefully he clatters to the floor, wobbling on his hands and knees as his bottle rolls away from him. It's happening too quickly for me to judge my next move. But I'm sure as hell surprised when the drunk suddenly rolls up his pant leg and removes a tiny pistol from a strap to his calf.

I find myself wondering, is this guy a cop? Looks pretty sketchy to be a cop sitting on the train with a beer drunk off your ass, but I recognize the issued weapon as well as the cop-common placement on his leg. Either way, he's too drunk to handle the weapon. The second kid easily disarms him by kicking the thing out of his hand. The first throws a kick into his stomach.

I decide to make my move. I think they've forgotten my presence since I haven't made a peep since the attack started. Hoping for the element of surprise, I spin a kick into one of the attacker's ribs. He whirls haphazardly around to find me and when he does I grab his shoulders and heave all my weight into them to force his sternum into my knee. I don't wear a badge anymore but my training is all muscle memory.

Unfortunately, muscle is something I'm overpowered with by my foe. He's winded by my attack but he regains his strength quickly and backhands me to the floor. My head slams on the ground and I'm face to face with the drunk for a minute. We meet eyes and for just a moment I see clarity in his. If he is a cop, he's just realized in his delusion that there is another victim in the making.

But his head reels back in pain as the first attacker sends another kick into his ribs. And another. Before I can even try to come to his aid I'm being picked up by the collar of my blouse and lifted off the floor.

"This ain't the place for you, sweetheart," warm breath fans over my face, rank and dark.

He swings me around until my face connects with one of the holding poles. The pain is stunning and I hold onto the metal to keep from buckling. Wet warmth seeps down the length of my face, fills my mouth. A shoe goes into my back and shoves me back onto the floor. It connects with my ribs and nearly flips me over. A hand grabs in my pocket and rips my wallet out, digging through for my credit cards and cash. In a daze I watch the first attacker go for the gun that had been previously kicked out of the drunk man's hand. He aims it to my left. And there's nothing I can do to stop him.

"Do it, man!" the second attacker with his foot in my back eggs him on.

Just then, the door swishes open. I see dark sneakers and jeans enter. The attacker holding the gun freezes and looks back.

"Drop the gun right now, drop it. I won't hesitate to put a bullet through your head if you don't drop that right now. Drop the wallets too."

After a moment's deliberation, the gun drops to the ground. I feel the small weight of my wallet drop on my back and the other smack of presumably the drunk man's wallet to my left. And consequently, the train pulls up to the stop. The opposite doors squeal open to the empty dark terminal. The two attackers pass looks between each other and the figure in the doorway.

"Go on, get outta here," the figure commands.

Their footsteps are quick. They bolt from the car as quick as they can go; checking their backs to make sure no one is following them. Then, they're gone. The car is silent for a moment. The drunk groans from next to me. I steady myself and try to pull myself up to my hands and knees. I bend my head and a stream of blood drips from my busted mouth.

A heavy arm encircles my waist and picks me up from the floor. I lean against the savior and feel the shape of the gun he must have threatened the attackers with against my hip. I finally get a look at the guy. Heavily built, dark caramel skin, scars of gang life on his collar, a scowl to his lips. He screams criminal to me, but his actions have proved otherwise.

"Can you stand?" he asks me. I nod but casually use the pole to help me stay upright.

He then bends down and retrieves the drunk's wallet and gun and then hoists the nearly unconscious man up from the floor. Blood is dripping from a wound in his head and his eyes roll back as he's lifted from the ground. The man holding him nods to me.

"C'mon."

I should argue. I should continue on my way home and not be involved. But I think it's the head injury that makes me follow him and the drunk out of the subway into the terminal. Could be curiosity too. As I said before, I no longer wear a badge, but there are just some things you can't shake off after years in the force. Curiosity is definitely one of them.

I wipe my mouth to clear the blood and then follow the two men out of the subway, into the darkness.


End file.
